


Father's Child

by thanksforthecrumb



Category: Reign (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 19:05:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1358512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thanksforthecrumb/pseuds/thanksforthecrumb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James is Mary's son. Add in Bash, and the three make a happy family. In this fic, Mary and Bash are married with a son, James. Just some ramblings I started a month or so ago. *secretly a frary fic shhh don't tell anyone*</p>
            </blockquote>





	Father's Child

**Author's Note:**

> Erm…this is my second ever fanfic, so bear with me.  
> Also, I'd just like to add that I'm a *hardcore* Frary shipper, so if I didn't quite catch the dynamic between Bash and Mary, I apologize profusely. I did try, though.

He is a beautiful child. My baby boy, my son. He has brown hair, and brown eyes. I imagine his eyes are like mine were when I was a girl; bright, inquisitive, on the lookout for new friends and new games and new mischief. He has a strong spirit, a will to live. He loves life, and it’s obvious. Obvious from the way he spends his days, making the other court children laugh and smile, the way he reaches for my hand in the corridors, runs and plays in the dewed grass. He is an adventurer. He is an explorer, but not of the usual sort. No, he does all his exploring, his adventuring, in books. He reads anything he can get his stubby child’s fingers around. He loves his books far more than I ever did as a child. He loves the outdoors, but his real passion, his true love, is for the stories, legends. The books. He devours them, no matter how challenging they are. His small, round boy’s face is always finding my eyes and my hands, begging for new books, old books, anything. I love that round, rosy face, those sparkling brown eyes. He is beautiful, from the way he always falls asleep with book in lap on the window-seat, the sun shining on his brown hair and making it flash copper. He is beautiful in the way he holds his sword, still a small wooden instrument. He’s not yet ready to hold a real sword. I’m not ready to let him. I’m not ready to let my little James go.

Bash taught him how to hold his wooden toy. James is very serious about it, but also very eager to learn how to perfect his parries, his strikes and blocks. Bash is a patient tutor, a patient father. He knows when to push my little James, when to stop. And I’m glad for it. As much as I love him and he loves me, James must learn the way of court for a man. That’s something I can never give him. I’m glad it’s Bash who is there for him, as a father and mentor.

But behind Bash is Francis, the lurking uncle. I believe it is Francis who encouraged James to read, to love reading. It’s definitely an effect of being around Francis, who is so passionate about things he loves, so in love with so many things. Books are magical for him. I’m glad he shares that magic with James. That’s something I would never have been able to do. 

James has a bright future here in court. He has Bash, his father and teacher, Francis, his uncle, his friend. And me. I like to think I encourage James’s heart. I suppose it’s a mother’s duty to do so. I’ve told him to follow it, no matter what his head tells him. It’s frowned upon in court. More than frowned upon. Forbidden, almost. An unspoken law in the court. An heir, especially not the heir to the throne of France, Scotland, and possibly England, should never listen to what his heart tells hims. But his uncle, Francis, has taught me otherwise, though I’d never say so.

Francis. He stays at court still, though he travels far through the continent often. He hardly speaks to me, except to give books to James. This is for the best. For all parties involved. I know it is. But still, after all these years, there is a hunger in him. His eyes are often wild, haunted. Everyone at court stays away from him. He is alone here, not for the first time, and never for the last. Part of me wishes to comfort him in some way, to resume the easy friendship of our long ago childhood. But I cannot. Or will not. I’m not sure. But I do appreciate the interest he has taken in James. My son is all the better for it.

Ever I find my eyes drifting to Francis, and ever Francis finds his eyes drifting to James. I often wonder if he knows, has guessed. Some small, forgotten part of me wonders if he’s hoped, wished, _willed_. I can only imagine. Sometimes, there is a spark of hope in those once-bright blue eyes, something that brings a glimmer of light, luster, in those vacant eyes. And it is always there when he watches James. And he nearly always watches James. But then, other times, he is engrossed in nothing. He sits, floating through life, or rides, or walks through the corridors. The young man I knew years ago was so full of live, even if he was constantly warring with himself. This grown man is empty, a shell of his former self.

I think, in my heart of hearts, I understand that Francis knows. It isn’t obvious, but Francis is a smart man, if a bit…distracted, and, some would say, deranged. I believe he is only lost. And I know what would save him. But I can’t give it to him. Never. And so he must remain lost. Poor Francis. Once, he would’ve been _my_ poor Francis. But not anymore, not now. Not ever.

I hear a squeak — the door of our chamber opening — and the dull thud of soft, thick-soled boots on the wood floor. I sit up quickly, chastising myself for thinking such things.

“Mary? Mary, where are you?”

Bash. He’s come in from a hunting trip, the sleeves of his jerkin smeared with black dirt. As his searching green gaze settles on me, sitting in a chair by the window, he lets out a slight noise. “Ah. There you are.”

I stand up as he comes toward me and pretend to make a disgusted face at his muddied clothes. He smiles at me. “We’ll have to send that down to be cleaned. They won’t appreciate it.” I gesture at his sleeves.

“I believe they’ll make an exception for the King of France, hmm?” He answers jokingly, lifting his chin, closing his eyes. The picture of pomposity.

I laugh at him. “Arrogant ass.”

He smirks at me and bends down to remove his boots. From his lowered position, his eyes are dark and hooded. “At least I’m not moody.”

“Hmm, well, I’d leave _that_ up for debate.” A second later I realize he was referring to a long-ago conversation. A conversation about a long-ago boy named Francis. Bash glances at me as he struggles with his boots.

“Do you think I should send the shirt away now?” 

I look at him. “Of course. The stain’ll set if you wait. Besides, it’s almost time to dress for dinner. James should be returning from his visit with the viscount’s son soon.”

“Ah. And that’d be Viscount…?”

I smile at him. He was never good with court politics. Even now, he still hasn’t got a strong grip on them. But it doesn’t matter. I press my hands gently on his chest, leaning into him. “Viscount Baudin.” 

“Ah,” he says again. I laugh. A quick, sharp knock a the door makes us both swing around. Bash adjusts the collar of a new shirt and laces the strings at the front together. “That’ll be the little devil, then.”

I give him a look, but then smile slightly. The doors open and my little boy’s face appears. He walks in, steady as always. I swoop down on him, tousling his head of brown curls a bit, making him shy away. “How was your day, my love?” I ask him, cupping his soft cheeks in my hands.

“Fine.” James continues walking deeper into the room, but grabs my hand to let me know I’m not being ignored. I squeeze it gently as he stops in front of his father.

Bash smiles down at him. James tilts his head back to look into his father’s eyes. “The viscount’s son bore you to death?”

I shake my head at Bash and shoot him a glare. James nods and giggles. “Bash, don’t _encourage_ him. What if he starts repeating them around the castle?”

Bash waves it off. “It’s fine. He knows better than to repeat things like that, don’t you, son?”

James looks into our faces innocently, widening his brown eyes and raising thin eyebrows. I sigh in annoyance and affection at him. “We’d better get dressed, then. There’s a banquet tonight for Diane’s birthday.”

Bash holds up a hand. “Wait a bit, Mary. The banquet’s not for some hours. And I’d bet James is in need of something fun to do.” He crouches down to James’s height, hands on knees, shoulders hunched forward. “Why don’t we go down to the practice rooms? Get in an hour of sparring before dinner?”

James glances up at me for a second, then back down to Bash. “Papa, I was thinking maybe I could go to the library. Uncle Francis said there’s a book that’s practically waiting for me to read it.”

“Well, of course you can go, if that’s what you want.” Bash looks to the ground. He pauses for a minute, looking through furrowed brows at his son. “But, James, wouldn’t you like to play swords? It’s better than reading all day.”

James smiles faintly, thick eyelashes tangling together as he blinks and looks down. “Thank you for offering, Papa. But I’d like to go to the library, if that’s all right.”

“Of course. Just make sure Francis lets you go in time to get ready for the banquet.” He looks a bit hurt as he says it, looking back at me for support. I shrug slightly and shake my head. James gives his father a gentle hug, encircling his small arms around Bash’s neck. “No more than two hours, James. Come straight back. Make sure you tell Francis.”

James straightens from the hug, and tugs free from my grasp, all but running out the door. We both turn to look after him. I smile as his shadow slowly disappears. “He’s very eager to read that book.”

Bash frowns, twisting his hands together. “Yes. It worries me.”

I laugh at this. “Bash! It worries you that our son is interested in reading? I’m sure plenty of fathers would be overjoyed to have that as their primary worry.”

He looks at me, green eyes shadowed by dark brows. “Have you noticed how much time he spends there? It seems he’s always by Francis’s side. He hardly ever spars with me anymore, not after you Francis showed him the library.”

I move behind Bash and put my hands on his shoulders, lean close to his ears. “Well, that’s fine, isn’t it? He’s not missing his lessons, and reading and history was always an important part of a future king’s instruction.”

“I never spent my childhood holed up in the library,” Bash points out sullenly.

I laugh at him again and gently curl a lock of his dark brown hair around my finger. “Yes, and you’re a model future king, Bash.”

He chuckles with me, softly. “I may not be perfect, but I’m enough.” He pauses for a bit, before swiveling his head to look at me. Our noses are almost touching. “Aren’t I?” he breathes into my face.

I know what he wants me to say, know what I _should_ want to say. But there is a tiny, tiny part of me that doubts. That remembers something older, a different sort of love. I brush it aside quickly. “You’re perfect,” I whisper, bumping my nose against his.

He pulls back fluidly, a crooked smile dancing on his lips. Then he’s plunging back in, our lips clashing, his tongue working its way into my mouth. I sway forward, swinging myself deeper into his chest, and his sturdy arms circle me, his rough fingers cradling my neck. His lips are hot and dry, cracked from the cold outside. He kisses harder, splitting his bottom lip. The salty, coppery taste of blood floods my mouth. I back away from our close embrace and touch his lip with a light hand. “Bash, your lip. It’s bleeding.”

He reaches up for my finger, puts his own on his lip. It comes away faintly red. “Ah,” he says. “It’ll stop soon.” He keeps his finger pressed firmly on the spot. “Mary, you wouldn’t mind if I went down to the practice rooms and sparred for an hour or two, would you?”

I smile. “Of course not. But make sure you come back in time to get ready for the banquet.”

“You sound like you’re speaking to James,” Bash teases, pretending to be offended.

“Yes, because without strict instructions you’re both lost,” I retort. “Now get on with you.” I wave him out the door, laughing as he pretends to get stuck in it. He pops his head in long enough to get out a few sentences.

“Mary, you should go to the library. You know how James is. He’s not going to come back until he’s reread half the library, and Francis isn’t exactly focused on the time.”

I nod reluctantly. “If you really think so, I’ll go.”

Bash shoves the rest of his body through the crack of the door made by his head. He kisses my cheek gently. “Thank you,” he murmurs in my ear, flicking a bit of hair with his finger.

I roll my eyes at him affectionately and purse my lips in mock disapproval as Bash disappears down the corridor. I set off to the library. The halls are near empty. Everyone is busy preparing for the feast. The library isn’t hard to miss. It has large windows designed and strategically placed to ensure the room has plenty of natural light in the daytime. As I walk through the arched, double doors, the smell of ink and old pages overwhelms me. “James?” I call. There’s no answer, though a few young bookkeepers give me a nod and go back to re-shelving and dusting. My eyes rove over the shelves and dark, heavy tables. Then, nestled in the deepest edge of the library, sit two people. A small boy with only his head of brown curls visible sits beside a grown man with untidy blond ringlets. “James,” I say fondly.

His head pops up almost immediately. His uncle is slow to follow, and I see his once-bright eyes go out of focus as they leave the page he’s reading. “Mama,” James replies evenly. “What are you doing here? I’ve only been gone —”

“Your father wanted me to come with you and make sure you stay…on task.” I glance at Francis, who has returned to his book.

“You needn’t have worried,” James prattles happily. “Uncle Francis would’ve warned me when it was time.” He tilts his head to look at Francis. “Wouldn’t you, Uncle?”

“What?” Francis tears his eyes from the page to look at James. “Did you say something, my boy?”

“Nothing, Uncle.” James shrugs unconcernedly.

“James, you must read. If you don’t catch up I’ll be forced to turn the page. You wouldn’t want that, would you?” Francis raises his eyebrows, trying to look gruff and threatening. James giggles and returns to reading, the two sitting together, sharing each other’s warmth and quiet, easy companionship. I turn away, to leave the library. It’s better to leave them alone. I had a feeling I was already by myself as I spoke to them.

I pause in the doorway. One hand on the handle, I twist my body to look back at the two. James is pointing to a word in their book, and Francis is explaining it to him with exaggerated hand gestures and facial expressions. James laughs and the uncle and nephew turn back to their shared book. Francis puts his arm around James’s back, and the two press closer together. I can see little James’s lips moving as he reads the words he so loves. A warm wave of love washes over me. I look at the two of them sitting so close. Francis’s arm around James, James’s head resting on Francis’s shoulder. Their noses are stuck in the book, only the tops of their heads visible. Brown curls next to blond curls. They must be reading the same sentences, because every once in a while they’ll laugh as one, or draw the same somber expression. I smile at them as I leave. My little James is his father’s child.


End file.
